


A Night to Remember (or to Forget)

by Timeforelfnonsense



Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Courtly intrigue, F/M, Regency Romance Vibes, TW for mild sexual harassments, The inherent eroticisms of a ball, pre game events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timeforelfnonsense/pseuds/Timeforelfnonsense
Summary: "She’d rendered herself all but invisible to the judgmental eyes of the nobility. Such festivities did tend to be rife with titled wallflowers but, this intriguing lady was different. She was a watcher, not unlike himself. She had the expression a huntress, poised and observant. The sort of sharp, perceptive person he’d do well to give a wide berth.Still, he was intrigued…"
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Kudos: 11





	A Night to Remember (or to Forget)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @corpsetoes on Tumblr! Thank you for trusting me with Rayan and supporting my work!  
> If you are interested in having me write for you, keep an eye on my Tumblr, @Timeforelfenonsense, for slots opening up next month!  
> Lore notes are listed below!

Gods, he hated balls.

There had been a time when he had enjoyed rubbing elbows with the patriars but the proud, old families of Manorborn had long since lost their luster. These days faux-courtly scruples were nothing but a thorn in his side. At least the latest Caldwell whelp, Lord Bernard, a flamboyant young man just out of his leading-strings, had committed himself to uphold his family’s longstanding tradition of artistic decadence.

The gilded walls and vaulted ceilings of Caldwell House echoed with the sounds of merriment and music as the glamorous, cosmopolitan nobility of the Upper City milled about the ballroom. All blissfully unaware that any one of them could be his master’s next meal.

He did find some facsimile of joy in the hunt despite the headache-inducing people who frequented these events. Hunting among the gentry was a delicate art, but it was one he had mastered. Astarion had an impeccable instinct for finding out what made those around him tick. It was a skill that kept his master well-fed and himself alive for the last two centuries.

His attention fell on a group of ladies, clad in the finest gaze and silk the modistes of the Citadel Streets had on offer, gathered around a filigree settee, gossiping behind their feathered fans. He recognized a few faces in their number. One particularly tedious but incredibly helpful one stood out in particular.

The tall brunette in chartreuse at the center of the giddy gaggle, Elizabeth Gist. She was the first daughter of a second Gist son, a fashionable young woman, unlikely to inherit much by way of anything but an advantageous marriage. Still, she was nonetheless popular among the  _ bon-ton  _ ladies of Baldur’s Gate. 

Lady Elizbeth or Betsy, as she’d  _ insisted _ he call her, was an unknowing but valuable ally in his ballroom endeavors. Her family’s control of the city's dye industry meant Lady Elizbeth was always in high fashion. Therefore many an advantageous young miss had been known to flock to her side. And where there was young, social-climbing nobility there was always gossip. Besty and her flock kept him well apprised of the wallflowers and incomparable at any given time. Who was embroiled in scandal and who desperately wished they were. All information that was of the utmost importance when Cazador sent him out to fetch dinner. 

“Astarion! Come sit with us, dear!” Lady Elizbeth called half a ballroom away. 

Astarion’s face quirked into a roguish grin as he set to join Betsy and her admirers. On his approach, he could just barely make out the sound of a few excelled heartbeats hidden behind the tuneful minuet. Two of Elizbeth’s companions were quite unsubtly ogling him. Their faces were unknown to him but their obvious shyness and attention to him made them promising potential meals. 

“Ladies!” Elizabeth said with a sharp clap of her petite, gloved hands, “Might I introduce you to my dear friend, Astarion. I know you are already well acquainted with Lady Ida Bormul and my darling cousin, Lady Sybil Dlusker, but have you met Lady Marguerite Boisclair and her companion Miss Eleanor? Astarion opened his mouth to respond but the jubilant Lady Gist gave him no time to get the words out before continuing, “They are visiting from Elturel! Isn’t that marvelous!? “

“Quite, we so rarely get fresh blood in the Upper City.” He said a subtle smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth. Astarion leaned in a bit closer than was proper to whisper in the ear of the wispy blonde Elizbeth had introduced as Miss Eleanor, “And even more rarely is it so lovely.” 

The rosy coloration on the waif’s cheeks deepened to a deep crimson as Astarion’s breath tickled her ear. He had known her to be without title long before Betsy’s prattling. Her frock was made from simple dyed cotton. Its hem was ever so slightly frayed indicating that it had been worn far more times than any noblewoman would consider fashionable. It was however her eyes that truly betrayed her. The cornflower blue orbs were wide with wonder, drinking in her soundings with thinly veiled envy and delight. Cazador  _ did _ always enjoy a naif, particularly ones as pretty and doe-eyed as this. Astarion winced as he felt the firm clap of Elizbeth’s fan on his bicep. Her narrow face scrunched up in a look of mock scandal. 

“Now, you be kind to the poor dear, Astarion! You know how sheltered they keep the lords and ladies of Elturgard!” She shifted to the blushing, sputtering young woman, speaking in an unconvincing tone of sympathy, “You’ll have to forgive him, Miss Elenor, he is  _ quite _ the rake.” She followed her statement with a bark of laughter, tugging him by the arm to sit beside her on the velvet settee, “Many a debutant and handsome buck alike have found themselves at the mercy of his wicked charm.”

“Betsy, you make me sound like quite the scoundrel! I’m nothing more than a lover of beauty and aesthetic, no different than Caldwell and his paintings.” 

He passed much of the evening with vexing, chittering Lady Gist. They discussed the latest fashions and the grand mural depicting the creation of Evermeet the young Lord Caldwell had commissioned to cover the ballroom’s high ceiling. Normally, Elizabeth was a fountain of information- it was the only reason he hadn’t fed her to Cazador ten times over, but tonight she and her ladies had little more to offer than dull small talk. He focused his attentions on the timid Elenor while keeping an eye on the dance floor for any provisions with a title he could bring back to the manor for supper. 

There were a few promising alternatives amongst the party-goers. A youthful Jhasso widow, who’s departed husband's family, who were already burdened by their failing business prospects, had all but abandoned. Or, Perhaps Lord Eros, the youngest son of the now, nearly destitute Provoss family? His family would likely be grateful for one less prospectless son to tend to. No one would ask questions if he disappeared. He needn’t limit himself to the usual baldurian rabble as well. Lady Marguerite Boisclair and Elenor were not the only Elturian visitors. 

Astarion’s notice locked onto an unassuming woman, tucked away in the farthest edge of the ballroom. She was a rather petite thing, with lovely curves that contrasted her strong angular face. Her high cheeks were stained with dewy rouge, highlighting the beautiful, sun-kissed quality of her skin. Her thick wavy hair pinned and coiffured into an inky crown- hiding a set of slightly pointed elven ears. He followed her strong hand as it came to the side of her head, tugging a loose curl over the exposed peep of her ear. She dressed in the innocent pastel garb of a simpering debutant but, there was a familiar keenness to her smoke gray gaze.

She’d rendered herself all but invisible to the judgmental eyes of the nobility. Such festivities did tend to be rife with titled wallflowers but, this intriguing lady was different. She was a watcher, not unlike himself. She had the expression a huntress, poised and observant. The sort of sharp, perceptive person he’d do well to give a wide berth. 

Still, he was intrigued…

He found his attention falling to the curious wallflower many times that evening. How rare it was to find someone among the gentry who sought to see rather than be seen themselves. She remained unnoticed by the  _ ton _ for most of the night. That was until she was approached by a delicate, soft-featured woman and that cad, Louie Guthmere. The Wallflower’s painted lips twitch downward a fraction of an inch before swiftly sifting back to an expression of neutrality and disinterest. 

“Who is that?” Astarion inquired, casting his gaze towards the trio in the corner, “Over there, being pestered by the Guthmere boy?”

“That is Arayanna di Zeirois.” The response came from Marguerite Boisclair, who was clearly, positively enthused to be included in any kind of salacious tattle. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they darted around the room. Bringing her fan over her mouth she whispered,

“She’s a bastard, you know? Her mother was a mistress! A kept mistress! Can you imagine?” Ida gave a tiny gasp chasing off the color blooming in her cheeks with an auspicious wave of the fan, “Her father, Anton di Zeirois perished in a carriage accident not so long ago,  _ with _ the mistress! Lord di Zeirois’ widow, Lady Isabella has assumed control of the di Zeirois estate. She’ll be running things until her son comes of age. I don’t know her personally, but I assume Lady Isabella is quite the paragon of generosity- taking her late husband’s bastard, raising her as if she were her own flesh and blood. The little hermit’s dance card is undoubtedly empty. It’s very kind of her mama to seek out a suitor for her if she won’t do it herself! ” 

“Or perhaps her ladyship is simply looking for strategic alliances here in The Gate?” Sybil remarked, “I overheard Lady Isabella and my father in the drawing-room this afternoon. She made an inquiry as to my brother’s  _ marital _ status. As if papa would ever allow his heir to marry a bastard, even an acknowledged one. Their estate has clearly been weakened with the death of Lord Anton. I‘d bet my dowry that’s why her step-mother is practically throwing her at Louie. His family’s tanneries would be of great use to a family that trades in fur and leather.”

Watching the interaction between the Wallflower, Louie, and her lady step-mother, Astarion found himself inclined to believe Sybil’s appraisal of Lady Isabella’s motivations. The lithe Lady di Zeirois was the picture of highborn beauty, with her delicately boned features and silky buttermilk-blonde tresses. She wore a perfect mask of haughty dignity but her dark eyes teemed with silent disdain each time they fell upon her stepdaughter. Besides, no doting mother would choose that wretch Louie for her child. 

Louie was a rotten little lordling with the face of a prince but the temperament of a goblin. His ego was far larger than the third son of a family who made their fortune via soaking animal skins in piss ought to have. That poor woman had a whole waltz’s worth of hot air to endure and the look on her face indicated she was well aware of it. She couldn’t refuse, of course. It would be an unforgivable social faux pas for a lady to reject a gentleman’s request for a dance without a particular and valid reason. Finding him repugnant would simply not suffice. 

Most of the patriar ladies would have claimed a turned ankle or come down with a sudden bout of the vapors when faced with such an unappealing dance partner. Priority would demand the young lady dance with no one else for the rest of the night if she did so, but perhaps that was the outcome she wanted?

Or perhaps not?   
With her back held straight, her gray eyes held level with Louie’s, she gave him a smile, far more gratuitous than he deserved as she followed him out to the dance floor. The quartet jumped to life, the Wallflower and Lord Louie began their dance. The first few measures of the waltz were entirely uneventful- the pair of them gliding gracefully through the sea of garish nobility that littered the dance floor. 

Astarion had almost lost interest in watching them. That was until he saw the wesley lord’s hand travel down towards the small of her back. Astarion watched the young lady’s body go rigid as Louie pressed his thin lips to the shell of her ear. Astarion could almost smell his hot, sticky, brandy-soaked breath from the other side of the ballroom. 

For a creature so small the Wallflower had surprising strength. Louie pulled back from mumbling Gods’ only knew what, in her ear and the Wallflower, who had so graciously allowed him to believe he had been in control up until that moment, scowled, her brows knit tightly together, grey eyes burning with fierce rebellion as she willed Louie into submission.

Now, it was her, rather than her lordly partner who led the dance. The other ladies all gasped in horror, their faces dressed in varying degrees of scandal. Astarion chuckled at the scene. It was like a carriage crash, he couldn’t look away! In a futile attempt to assert himself, Lord Guthmere pulled her improperly close, a look of disgust flashing across her face as he whispered in her ear once more, but she did not back down. 

This Wallflower was no shrinking violet it would seem. She had a spine of steel. A trait that would serve her well it would appear. As soon as the waltz wound down, her stepmother’s mother offered a tender apology to the young lord, a kindly smile stuck on her thin lips. The black silk of her opera glove strained over her dainty hand as she snatched her stepdaughter’s hand in an iron grip, hauling her towards the courtyard and for a moment the brave girl’s eyes were wide with fear.

Astarion reminded himself that whatever befell the young lady in that courtyard was none of his concern. If he did not return to Cazdor’s manor soon with dinner in tow, he’d face a fate far worse than anything the _ fair _ Lady Isabella had planned for her stepdaughter. 

Astarion watched as poor, sorrowful Lord Guthmere, shoved his way through the other young bucks of the patriar, bewildered and dejected as the rest of the _ bon ton  _ snickered at his expense, deservedly so. After such a humiliation, it was unlikely the miserable creature would show his face in society for some time. He glanced over at the scandalized Elenor- it was her lucky night. The Wallflower had dropped a perfect meal right into his lap and indirectly saved the life of Marguerite Boisclair’s simpering companion. Astarion bid Elizbeth and her ladies farewell. Straightening out his doublet, Astarion made his way towards the sulking lord with a sympathetic smile. 

“You positively glum my lord. How about you join me for a drink?”

**Author's Note:**

> Lore (via BALDUR'S GATE: DESCENT INTO AVERNUS and SWORD COAST ADVENTURES):  
> Patriar: Patriars are the elite upper class of the city, a rank defined largely by money and lines of vague, increasingly inconsequential heritage. Many nobles claim generations of lineage, dating to the earliest days of Baldur’s Gate. Their money funds industries and lines political pockets, but their names allow them to wield influence throughout the city.  
> Most patriar manors are townhomes rather than free-standing mansions, for the Upper City has always been constrained by its walls, and even the wealthiest families are limited to narrow footprints. In general, patriar manors have only small courtyard gardens, and rely on vertical arrangements such as espaliered fruit trees, trellised roses and wisteria, and vines trained along the house’s walls.  
> Though the noble characters are all my own creation, all of their family names/trades of the Baldurian’s are canon material.  
> Caldwell: Owns most of the city’s art museums.  
> Gist: Controls much of the city’s dye production.  
> Provoss: Nearly destitute after losses to its cattle herds.  
> Jhasso: Part owner of the struggling Seven Suns Trading Coster, a long-standing trade organization  
> Dlusker: Nearly broke but maintains a textile mill in the Lower City and a few slaughterhouses in the Outer City.  
> Bormul: Related to the Bormul nobility in Amn and has interests in southern silver mines and vineyards.  
> Guthmere: Owns butchery and tannery facilities  
> Baldur's Gate Districts:  
> Upper City:The Upper City, home to the patriar aristocracy of Baldur’s Gate, is a place of beauty and splendor, where magnificent public sculptures stand alongside historic manors, upscale theaters and boutiques, and tiny stone-walled gardens tucked among the streets like hidden jewels. Flowers bloom along the tree-lined streets, ushering away any stray miasma that escapes from the less fortunate quarters below. Silks and velvets, gold braid and mink, water-clear diamonds and luminous pearls: these are common sights in the Upper City, and hardly glimpsed elsewhere except as cheap imitations.  
> Citadel Streets. The northern part of the Upper City is dominated by the Watch Citadel, where the Watch conducts training, maintains its barracks and stable, and keeps a few jail cells. Beyond the Citadel, this neighborhood includes many shops and the comparatively modest, though still grand, houses that belong to the few non-patriar residents of the Upper City.  
> Manorborn. The most palatial residences lie on the Upper City’s west side. Most of the Parliament of Peers live here, as do the old, proud families who trace their lineages back to Balduran’s day. Climbing gardens, fountained courtyards, and private orchards adorn many of these elegant homes.  
> The city of Elturel has a long-standing rivalry with Baldur’s Gate. It is the capital city of the Kingdom of Elturgard, a theocratic society.


End file.
